Sitting, Waiting, Wishing
by Holli-chan
Summary: "Waiting on love isn't so easy to do - especially when you know you'll be waiting forever." Matt-centric, one-sided!Matt/Mello. Drabble, One-shot.


**Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

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_Disclaimer: Do not own Death Note or the song, which is by Jack Johnson, who is love. I wish I owned them both, though._

_A/N: This is really random, mostly just a drabble. So sorry I haven't been updating lately, I've gotten caught up in the Glee and Hetalia fandoms and I just can't focus on Slipping right now, plus Atreyl and I have been very busy with other things besides IWFJ. Sorry, lovely watchers! But fear not, I will still update soon, but expect more annoying lapses. Anyways this is VERY loosely based on the song Sitting, Waiting, Wishing by Jack Johnson, but the song isn't really necessary to understand the plot. Like, at all.  


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**1: Sitting**

Every time, it starts like this. Just sitting there, lolling you head up to look at anything; trying to find _anything_ that won't remind you of him. But it's impossible.

Your eyes trail to the table in front of you, and there's the computer, still open to an anti-Kira forum – they're getting rarer, the members fewer, but they do exist. It was obviously him who was on there – you don't care about Kira either way, really. You're sad L is dead, but really, you only hate Kira because _he_ hates Kira.

Then to the floor, but there are wrappers there, crinkled, silver aluminum that could come from only one thing – chocolate bars; you know better than anybody who must have put those there. Him, of course. Later, when he gets home, he'll tell you to pick them up, even though he's the one who did it and that isn't fair – you'll do it, too.

The wall offers no relief – it not only holds the dorky little drawing you did years ago when you were six of the two of you (it's so horrible you can hardly believe you ever drew it), you and _him_, but also the dents on the wall from where he punched the wall in fits of anger – at Kira, at Near, at you, it didn't matter. That's not to mention the actual _color_ of the wall – light gray. You hate the color – you'd wanted something brighter, happier – but you'd compromised. And by compromise, you of course mean you did exactly what _he_ wanted.

The ceiling is no better. You thought you would have pure claim to at least that piece of your house – the smoke from your cigarettes - the things you smoke not so much because you're addicted to them but because _he_ resents them under his breath, and it's much like a secret retribution for you – have left ugly blackened patches on the once completely white ceiling. But alas, even the ceiling leaves marks of him – there are bullet holes in the ceiling. He does it all the time – every time, he tells you, that he wanted to shoot _you_ instead, to put an end to your endless, annoying presence, but doesn't because he's just kind like that, isn't he? You always nod and say yes – you're just so grateful for him, so grateful for Mello.

It's not so much that you resent him. You don't – had you resented him, you'd have been relieved when he left Wammys when he was almost-fifteen, not chased him across the world to get him back. Hell, you were best friends once – it was a blissful nine-or-so years. He was always bossy and quite the drama queen when he was younger, but it was nothing you couldn't deal with. In fact, it was just another trait that made you love him all the more. You can remember, almost fondly, the day when you were 13 and he was 14, and you confessed to him on a whim, because you'd been feeling so confident that day. He'd stared at you with boggling eyes, wider than they ever had been, and then smirked. You can still remember his words; still replay them effortlessly in your head – "Nice one, Matt. You almost got me." You'd forgotten it was April Fools Day.

Later, you'd confess to him again, the day he left – too late, really. But then, maybe not too late, because he had always known. You could see it in his eyes that he wasn't surprised at all when you threw himself at his feet and pleaded '_I love you's _ and '_don't leave me_'s at the top of your tearful voice. He'd smiled, even, but he hadn't replied – he'd just shaken his head, ruffled your hair, and made his leave.

He leaves you a lot, really. You recollect this as you sit there on your chair, watching the room that Mello always lit up before, had always made it feel like a home (if not an abusive one). You're sitting there, just…

**2: Waiting**

…waiting for him.

You're not so much waiting for him to come home as you're waiting for him to come home and _love you_ already. Because honestly, hadn't you waited long enough? You'd fallen in love with Mello at first sight when you met at such a young age – sure, it had been a friendly, puppy-dog love back then (you'd only been six or something) but it had developed into something so powerful it couldn't be denied. You'd never loved anyone else – he'd owned you right from the start. You stuck to him like Gorilla Glue, only you doubt even surgery could remove you,

You put up with his friends, his horrible, annoying friends. Mir was an ass, and a total manwhore, always hitting on him, _your_ Mello; worse yet, he'd always seemed flattered by Mir's compliments. (You compliment him all the time, why not you?) Rachelle was a slut, not to mention stupid as a Barbie doll without a head. (Notably, Barbie dolls _with_ heads _were_ smarter.) Crass was a douche – he meant well, you suppose, but still a douche. (Then again, that one could have been your imagination – you might just hate him because he hung out with Mello a lot during soccer season.) And Near – you hated Near even before Mello did, because you could just _tell_ that Near liked him more than he should even with all the dirty comments he made about him. (You were so, so grateful when Mello started hating him, thank god.)

You put up with _him._ He threw things at you sometimes, bit you if you tried brushing hair out of his face, fumed for hours on end over stupid little arguments and exploded if anyone mistook him for a girl. (Notably, he _did_ look like a girl, though you'd never say that to him, you know better). You were always there to catch him when he fell, and fall he did – always, you were there to be the face he stepped on to get back to the top. You never minded, either – after all, you could see his ass from there.

Always, always, you loved him. For all his flaws, you loved him, and for a while you were under the hope that Mello would love you back someday. He'd already admitted he liked guys, right? So why not you? You were his best friend – he told you his secrets, and he was friendly with you when he wasn't fuming, right? You'd certainly earned his love – you'd saved his ass enough times, put up with enough shit, listened to enough rants, healed enough wounds.

Wasn't that how it was suppose to work? Wasn't Mello supposed to love you back?

But you're not that lucky. You're never that lucky. You're left waiting every night, for him to come home or to look up from his work and see you there. You're waiting for him to crawl into bed with you like he always used to, before you confessed the first time (even if Mello had thought it to be a joke, it had still scared him, Matt had realized later) and to snuggle against you and kiss you and love you. You're waiting for him to realize that you're the best one for him, the one he deserves, the one that's _right._

Every time, he comes home.

Every time, you look up, smile, say, "Hi, Mello."

Every time, you get the same gruff, "Matt."

Every time, he strolls right past you and into that damned office to do his work, his stupid _Kira_ work, to beat him, to beat Near, to avenge L.

Every time, you're jealous of a murderer, a crippled albino, and a dead man.

**3: Wishing**

You can see how it would be in your head, if he'd just let it. Every night (or rather, every morning, considering the ungodly hours Mello returns at) you'd get up and open your arms, greet him with a warm hello. He'll roll his eyes, because he thinks you're an idiot – but you'll be _his_ idiot, and he'll swoop in and steal and quick hug and maybe a kiss. Maybe more.

Some days, they'll hate sex. It's something you often fantasize about, sometimes not so secretly, either. Some days, you masturbate later on, screaming his name under the assumption that if he comes home he'll hear you – he does, and it bothers him, but you don't care really; Mello is too embarrassed to comment, much less make you stop. When you have him, you imagine, you'll have sex almost every night, sometimes sweet and passionate and sometimes hard and romping. You don't care how or who tops or how rough or kinky it is; you don't care if he's taking advantage of you or if he's a really bad screw (though you know he won't be, he's too hot and fierce to be lame in the bedroom) – you just want Mello, _all_ of Mello. And on the days they don't have sex, and maybe after sex too, you'll snuggle up in bed and fall asleep in each other's arms. In the morning, Mello will deny that he enjoyed this part, but you know that even the great mafia leader needs a little coddling sometimes. You know _you_ do.

You imagine you'll get to know his real name. You've always referred to him as Mello or Mells or Mel or Mel-Mel or _him._ But you don't know his real name, his birth name, the name his mother gave him. He never told you – he told you that he might someday, but he never did. You suppose he just forgot, or maybe you let him down sometime along the way, because he never went through on a lot of his promises. Not the promise to tell you his name, not the promise to be with him forever, not the promise to protect you. You're still waiting – it's not too late. You're still sitting – you're not going to leave until you're dead. You're still wishing – you still hope he'll come through.

Deep down, you know he won't. In the depths of your heart, in the part of you that sees past the emotions and wishes in your heart and sees the blunt, awful truth, you know he doesn't love you, and you know he never will. You know that those days he gives in and gives you a kiss and rips at your back with his fingernails isn't love – its frustration. You know he likes you as a friend – that's why he never lets it go too far, no matter how much you say you want it – but you also know he doesn't respect you enough to even try to let you into his past life, to give you the key to his heart. Deep down, you know that you're just another one of Mello's pawns.

Waiting on love isn't so easy to do - especially when you know you'll be waiting forever.

Still, you love him.

Still, you know you always will.

So when he says, "We're kidnapping Kiyomi Takada," you immediately agree. And when he tells you the plan, you nod and agree without a second thought, even you know you know the mission is going to be suicide; you agree.

So when they're standing outside not hours before they leave to die, when Mello looks up at him and says, "I love you, you know," you only smile and reply, "No, you don't. But thanks for trying, Mel."

So when you take eight bullets for him, you do not regret but instead wonder if, had you driven just a little faster, Mello would have been able to get away.

So when you gasp for your last breath, your last thought is still "_wonder if he appreciates this?"_

Up till the end, you still wonder why you were never good enough.

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_**Review?**_


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